Murder at Marble House (A Gilded Newport Mystery)

by Alyssa Maxwell

  Had I actually kissed him? His suggestion had been so . . . well . . . ingenious . . . and it had quite taken me by surprise. I’d been going about this investigation all wrong, hoping someone might slip up and inadvertently admit the truth. But evidence doesn’t lie. Clues don’t make excuses. They lay out a trail from crime to culprit, if one is clever enough to follow them.

  Was I?

  Apparently not, if I couldn’t decide on a proper course now. Should I apologize for my brash action? Say nothing? Make pleasant small talk? The heavy silence that fell over us seemed to make my decision for me.

  Derrick turned the horse in a wide arc and brought the curricle to a stop in front of the house. Before I could make a move, he leaped to the ground and came around to help me down. My hand in his, we stood facing each other in the light spilling from my front parlor. Muffled from the other side of the house, ocean waves broke against the foot of the property.

  I cleared my throat. “I . . . ah . . . well . . . thank you for all your help today.”

  “You’re welcome, Emma.”

  “Would you . . . um . . . like to come inside?”

  “No, thank you. It’s late and I should be getting back.”

  But he didn’t release my hand, or make any other move to leave. I stared into his face, into his eyes, which suddenly seemed darker than the sky overhead—dark with whatever thoughts he didn’t see fit to share with me. The moment stretched, became uncomfortable, nearly unbearable, yet just as he didn’t move, neither did I try to slide my hand free and step away. I wished he would say something. Was he waiting for me to do the same? To tell him, perhaps, why I’d kissed him when I’d made it clear we had no future together?

  “I . . . it was such a good idea you had . . . about the clues . . . and . . . well . . . I didn’t mean to—”

  “You didn’t,” he said firmly. “And you don’t have to explain.”

  “Oh, but—”

  “It’s much more fun if we keep each other guessing.” The lamplight from inside caught the gleam of his teeth as he smiled.

  “Is it now?” I slapped a hand on my hip. “Is that why we’re standing here as though we’re waiting for . . . for I don’t know what?”

  “Don’t you?” Was it my imagination, or did he lean in, crowding me and depriving me of oxygen?

  My instinct was to retreat a step, but my legs no longer seemed adequate to support me. It was my turn to be mute. I shook my head.

  He grasped my chin and raised it, then brushed his lips against mine. “Good night, Emma.”

  With that he swung up into the curricle and drove away. I watched him go until he turned onto Ocean Avenue and disappeared into the darkness. My fingertips quivered; my heart fluttered. My mind conjured a single word that summed up Derrick Andrews.

  Fiend.

  I was up with the sun next morning. When Nanny found me in the front parlor, I was sitting cross-legged on the braided oval rug in my dressing gown, with a tablet and pencil beside me and several items ranged in front of me.

  Nanny hovered in the doorway, eyeing me with obvious puzzlement.

  “Don’t worry,” I said, without looking up, “there is a method to my madness.”

  “To undo the work Katie did cleaning in here yesterday?”

  I sat back, propped on my hands behind me, and contemplated my array of improvised evidence: a silk scarf, a deck of playing cards in lieu of actual tarot cards, several unlit candles, a small pile of coins, one of the men’s flannel work shirts Aunt Sadie used to wear with her trousers when she did the gardening, and a handful of dusky pink blossoms I’d gathered from the lawn beyond our kitchen garden. These were merely tea roses, not the same as those I’d found in the pavilion, but today they would serve my purposes.

  Nanny’s worn, embroidered slippers entered my view. “What on earth are you doing?”

  “Deducing, Nanny dear.” I turned my face up to her. “These all represent the clues in Madame Devereaux’s murder.” I gestured at my little collection. “Up until now I’ve considered each one separately. But if they are to lead to the guilty party, they must be taken as a whole, all linked together. The same person has to have a link to each and every item.”

  She moved across the rug to perch on the edge of the wingback chair. “How is a candle connected to a flower?”

  “My theory is this: Whoever murdered Madame Devereaux wore some sort of heavy fabric that didn’t tear when he or she broke through the azalea hedges to make their escape. This may suggest a man and does tend to rule out most of Aunt Alva’s guests that day. All but one of the ladies present wore silks, ruffles, and delicate pleats.

  “Now,” I went on, “the person also brought coins, which were found strewn across the table and spilled onto the floor.” The coins in front of me clinked as I ran my fingers over them. “This, and the lighted candles, suggest the person had asked the medium to read his or her fortune, and had to have time to do so before the ladies and I went out to the pavilion.” Next, I fingered the playing cards. “This theory is supported by the fact that we found tarot cards spread out on the table.”

  I paused and once again contemplated the scenario I’d devised. “So, either a man or someone dressed as, say, Mrs. Stanford went to the pavilion and asked for their fortune to be read. This person carried money, either in a purse or in a pocket, along with Amelia Beaumont’s silk scarf. At the same time, he or she had been somewhere where pink wildflowers grow and managed to track them in, most likely on their shoes.”

  “Or in the cuffs of his trousers,” Nanny said, “or the train of her dress.”

  “Yes!” I hadn’t actually thought of that and rewarded Nanny with a grateful smile.

  “Have you checked the Cliff Walk?” she asked. “For the flowers, I mean.”

  “Not yet, but I’m going back to Marble House later today. I’m hoping these flowers were not from the cliffs.”

  “Why not?”

  I sighed. “Because if they are, they no longer stand up as a clue.” Her frown prompted me to continue. “You see, anyone entering the estate from the Cliff Walk could easily have been seen walking across the lawns to the pavilion. The murderer would have been taking quite a risk of discovery. Plus, if the flower grows on the cliffs, how likely is it our murderer was scaling the precipices directly before killing Madame Devereaux? It doesn’t make sense and yet . . .” I sat back again. “And yet I believe the flowers to be a key bit of evidence. Link these flowers to a person, and I truly believe I’ll find both the murderer and Consuelo.”

  “You think the murderer has Consuelo?” Nanny’s voice was grave, echoing my own inner sentiments.

  “I didn’t at first, and as much as I wish it were otherwise, yes, I do. And that terrifies me.” I dropped my head into my hands. “And the thing is, the police won’t believe it, not if they think Anthony Dobbs and Clara Parker are guilty. Oh, Nanny, why can’t I figure this out?”

  “I can tell you something that might possibly be of some help.”

  My head shot up. “Yes?”

  “It’s about that Lady Amelia. She’s not what she pretends to be, that one.”

  I remembered Lady Amelia staring down at me from her window as I discussed the petals with Mr. Delgado and Jamie Reilly. For the most part, I’d believed her to be filling an idle moment. Could she, from that distance, have seen the petals in my palm and have cause to be concerned?

  I returned my attention to Nanny. “What is she, then?”

  Approaching footsteps sounded in the foyer and a moment later Brady stood in the doorway. He wore his blue and silver damask dressing gown, his flaxen hair tousled. “Em, you’re awake. Good. I need you.”

  I’d barely seen my brother in the past several days. Since his exoneration and release from jail, he’d caught up on a lot of missed sleep while I’d kept busy tracking down Consuelo and a murderer.

  Who could blame him? He still looked tired, yet the heavy shadows that had haunted his features were slowly fading beneath
restored color and the sparkle that typically resided in his gaze, as though he expected a delightful surprise at any given moment. Yet now I detected something in his expression that convinced me he was about to toss a barricade between me and my plans today.

  “What are you doing up so early?” I asked, not completely sure I wanted to know.

  “I have been summoned,” he said in an ominous tone. “To the big house.”

  Both Nanny’s and my eyebrows shot up in astonishment. “Uncle Cornelius wants to see you?”

  “Mm-hmm.” He released a long breath. “What do you think he could want, Em? You don’t think he’s decided to press charges, do you?”

  I almost said it would serve Brady right if Uncle Cornelius did press charges. Brady might not have murdered Uncle Cornelius’s financial secretary, but he did attempt to steal business secrets with the intention of using them against the Vanderbilt family’s New York Central Railroad.

  Actually, Brady had stolen those secret plans right out of Uncle Cornelius’s safe, only to have a change of heart at the very last minute. But as far as I knew, his bout of conscience had done little to endear him to Uncle Cornelius, who fired Brady from his position of clerk and ordered him never to show his face at the offices in New York, or at The Breakers, ever again.

  I wanted to remind Brady of all that, and goodness knew he deserved his banishment. A quick glance at Nanny’s pursed lips told me she agreed. But he’d been through so much already and looked so vulnerable standing there in his dishabille and worrying his bottom lip, that I took pity on him.

  “Maybe this is a good sign,” I said gently. “But why do you need me? I really don’t think Uncle Cornelius would appreciate me tagging along.”

  He fisted his satin lapels as if hanging on for dear life. “I’m certainly not going alone.”

  “Oh, really, Brady, you’ve nothing to fear,” I said with more confidence than I felt. “Besides, I have important things to do today.”

  He swept farther into the room and sank onto a footstool, his dressing gown billowing dramatically around him. “More important than your brother?”

  My resolve weakened a fraction. “It has to do with Consuelo.”

  “Tell you what, then. You come with me, and then I’ll help you with whatever else you have to do today.” He leaned in closer, reaching for my hand. I reluctantly returned his grasp.

  “Deal?”

  I thought a moment. Having Brady along at Marble House could come in handy, especially when it came to examining the Cliff Walk for my mystery flower. “All right. I’ll come with you, although I highly doubt Uncle Cornelius will allow me to stay and hear whatever he has to say to you.”

  As I spoke those last words, the telephone bell jingled, and I reclaimed my hand. “I’ll get it,” I said, coming to my feet.

  On the other end of the line, Jesse greeted me quickly. “Good morning, Emma. I have some news I thought you’d be interested to hear. That wildflower of yours? It’s something we Islanders are all familiar with, so common we hardly notice it. Rugosa rose.”

  I wrinkled my nose at the unfamiliar term. “I’ve never heard of it.”

  “Well, no, most people wouldn’t know it by name. As I said, it’s so common as to be considered a weed. It grows along the cliffs, especially along Belleview Avenue, and is one of the few wildflowers that blossom throughout the summer.”

  Images of the cliffs appeared in my mind. Not being a boater, it was a rare occasion for me to view the cliff faces. The beaches and my own rocky shoreline were far more familiar. “Can you tell me what the whole flower would look like?”

  “Much brighter pink than the petals you brought us, of course, and with golden centers,” he said. “I’m afraid this might not be much use after all. We’ll look into it, but if rugosa roses are growing beyond the Marble House property, it’s likely your petals merely blew in with the wind.”

  “Yes, I had the same thought.” I sighed. “Thank you, Jesse. I appreciate your letting me know.” After hanging up, I returned to the parlor to be practically accosted by Brady.

  “Was that Cornelius? What did he want? You will come with me, won’t you, Em? Just to be somewhere in the house in case I need you.”

  “You are such a child.” I picked up one of the tea roses and flung it at him. Nanny chuckled. “No, that wasn’t Uncle Cornelius, and yes, I’ll come with you.”

  Apparently satisfied, Brady finally seemed to notice the candles, roses, cards, and other items strewn on the floor. He propped his elbows on his knees and his chin in his hands. “What have we here? Are we playing a game?”

  “You’re so right, Emma.” Nanny huffed as she tugged her bulk out of the chair. “Such a child.”

  “Em, we have to go—now! The old badger said nine-thirty sharp and I don’t dare be late!”

  Despite Brady’s shouts from his perch on my rig, I lingered inside the house. “Nanny,” I said as she gave my hat a minor adjustment, “what were you going to tell me earlier about Amelia Beaumont?”

  “Oh, yes, I’d forgotten with all of Brady’s hubbub.” She drew me farther away from the open front door as if to ensure our privacy from prying ears, not that Brady could have heard us or it would have mattered if he had. “Lady Amelia Beaumont hasn’t got two cents to rub together.”

  “What? No!”

  Nanny nodded sagely. “I’ve had it from Bonnie Preston, Mrs. Goelet’s housekeeper over at Ochre Court, who heard it from the family’s housekeeper in New York, who not only surmised it firsthand but conferred with Carrie Astor’s lady’s maid and Mrs. Frances Delafield’s personal secretary.”

  Nanny’s list of illustrious servants had me shaking my head in confusion until she said, “Don’t you see, Emma? Lady Amelia stayed first with the Goelets last winter, then with the Astors in the spring, and finally with the Delafields before coming here to stay with your Aunt Alva.” She compressed her lips and peered at me over her spectacles like a schoolmarm waiting for the figures to add up in my head.

  “You mean she doesn’t have a home of her own?”

  “Nor maids nor carriages nor any prospects at all save for a trunkful of extravagant gowns.”

  “And the kindness of friends.” I pressed my knuckles against my lips. “Good heavens. When all this happened and the police questioned Lady Amelia on the whereabouts of her scarf, it came out that Clara Parker had been serving as her lady’s maid because Amelia’s own had taken ill.”

  “Ill, my eye. The gentry are always quick with a story to cover their tracks. Lady Amelia’s a fake, pure and simple. Oh, I’ve no doubt she was raised with a silver spoon between her lips, but the money’s gone and unless she finds a rich husband quick, she’ll be out of options.”

  “And in a way it makes perfect sense that she’d ingratiate herself to Aunt Alva,” I said. “With Consuelo engaged, Amelia was probably hoping to be introduced to some of the castoff suitors.”

  “Emmaline Cross, what the devil are you doing in there?”

  Brady’s urgent interruption set my feet in motion. “Thanks, Nanny, this certainly sheds some new light on matters.”

  We’d no sooner arrived at The Breakers than a waiting footman whisked Brady upstairs. I was also led upstairs but at a much more sedate pace, and delivered to Aunt Alice, who was enjoying breakfast out on the upper loggia. Sunlight glittered on the ocean beyond the gardens, but the covered loggia was cool and shady.

  “Ah, Emmaline,” she crooned when she saw me. “Do join me for some kippers and eggs. Gertrude won’t be up for hours yet. Parker,” she said to the footman still hovering behind me, “please bring an extra place setting for my niece.”

  She said this last with an affection that drew my notice. Not that I ever doubted Aunt Alice’s sentiments toward me. She might not approve of everything I did, but her fondness for me had always been evident. Still, she wasn’t one to express emotion save the hearty self-satisfaction of having full control over her world. So then . . .

  “I hear
you’ve been to Marble House recently.”

  Ah. I sat in a cushioned chair beside her chaise lounge. “Yes, I was there when—”

  “Oh, Emmaline, nothing good can come of associating with that woman. And now you’re embroiled in a most unsavory matter.”

  By that woman, I knew she referred to Aunt Alva. I fought the temptation to remind her that associating with her own branch of the Vanderbilt family had brought nearly identical results not all that long ago. “I went to see Consuelo, Aunt Alice.”

  She blew out a breath, popped a morsel into her mouth, and took her time in answering. “That poor child . . . a lovely girl, and she’s been made to endure so much because of that mother of hers.”

  I couldn’t argue there.

  “Tell me, how is the poor dear holding up?”

  Here I needed to be careful. I appreciated Aunt Alice, I respected Aunt Alice, but I didn’t trust Aunt Alice not to find a way to use the current situation to her advantage. She and Aunt Alva had long been rivals—their two monstrous houses stood testament to that. Would Alice use Consuelo’s disappearance to fuel a scandal? My heart said no. Family history, however, warned otherwise.

  “Consuelo is distraught,” I said without lying. “This is not a happy time for her.”

  “Is it true—” Aunt Alice broke off as Parker reappeared carrying a tray. He set it down on the little garden table between Aunt Alice and myself, and lifted the cover off a plate heaped with golden scrambled eggs framed by two long, silvery brown kippers. Beside the plate sat a small bowl of sliced melon and strawberries.

  “Did I mention I ate at home?” I said. Yet my stomach rumbled in appreciation of the aromas spiraling from the tray.

  “You’ll eat again,” my aunt said with a dismissive wave, though an unnecessary one as I’d already set the plate on my knees and unwrapped my fork from the napkin. “You’re too thin, at any rate.”

  Once again, not a point to argue over. Parker’s receding footsteps prompted Aunt Alice to swallow a bite of kipper and lean toward me. “I had started to ask you. Is it true about Consuelo’s engagement?”